


Thanks for the Flowers

by PeachGO3



Series: SPN Inspired by German Songs [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flowers, Hellhounds, Humor, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: There’s no way the King of Hell would fall for a boorish veteran hunter just like that. Or is there? Hm.





	Thanks for the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly inspired by Udo Jürgen’s “Vielen Dank für die Blumen“ (Thanks for the flowers). To me that song just screams Crowley, so I thought I’d take that idiom to a literal level. Enjoy xx

It went in one ear and out the other, that unbearable business speak. Boring. The asylum’s goddamn ceiling was more interesting than this. Crowley knew statistics were important, order was important, but it surely wasn’t something he had to put up with personally.

“Sir?”  
“Hm? Say, is there any news about Angelino?”

His demons looked at each other unsurely. “Pardon, sir? Oh, oh, you mean the puppy?” Yes, Angelino, the youngest of the Hellhounds, had scarpered. Managed to run away, the little fucker.

“I’m disconsolate to tell you, but there has been no news regarding his position as of lately, sir.”

“Fine, you bootless lowlifes.” Crowley stood up, hands waving in the air. “Then I’ll do it myself.” And he was gone, pleased with his excuse, all the while hearing the demons complain. Heh.

 

_Thanks a lot for the flowers  
Thanks a lot, how kind of you_

 

They couldn’t even find a Hellhound. Not that those were easy to find in general, if they didn’t want to be seen. Still, Crowley had given orders to get that stinker back, and what kind of king was he if his orders weren’t fulfilled?

He was just messing around with his servants. He needed a drink.

He still had that bottle he stole from poor fellow Robert Singer some time ago. Crowley decided to empty it, he felt like it.

Feet on the cellar’s table, he sighed and poured himself a glass. The bottle still smelled of that old bugger’s house. At least Singer owned one of these at all. Craig scotch. The best whisky out there.

As Crowley took a sip, he continued his train of thoughts and thought of other things he liked about Robert Singer.

The man was duteous, at least from what Crowley knew. He couldn’t imagine Singer running away from anything. Hell, he didn’t even run away from kissing him, despite his disgust. Granted, the world had been about to end. But Crowley had seldomly been so unsure of the outcome of a negotiation.

That said, Singer was a miserable kisser. He smelled bad, and he was always grumpy and rarely larksome.

Crowley took another sip.

Singer was a brave man.

Just at this moment, Crowley felt his feet being swept away from the table, and there he was, in Bobby Singer’s smelly two and eight of a house. In a devil’s trap. “You spilled my scotch,” he weakly complained, shaking his arms in a sluggish attempt to dry the sleeves.

“Hello, asshole,” Singer said, pointing a rifle at Crowley.

“Well, look who summoned me, even though we negotiated the last time that he would never do so again. Hello, Robert. Speaking of the devil,” Crowley smiled and put one hand in his pocket. His glass was in the other.

The greeting had thrown the hunter off, but he quickly recovered. “Sorry about that, demon bitch. But did you really think my blood wouldn’t be good enough to get yer ass up here?”

“Breaking our contract is one thing, but besides, I didn’t think you’d bleed for me,” Crowley said truthfully.

 

_Sometimes life likes to play a game of cat and mouse with you  
There’s always gonna be someone who outsmarts you_

 

“Wanted to chat with an old friend?”  
“You ain’t no friend.”  
Crowley’s smile died. “So why summon me in the middle of the night then?” he asked.

“I have work for you,” Singer said after a while, putting the rifle down. “The boys have hunted down a nest in Iowa. I want you to get them out of there.”

Crowley chuckled artificially. “So, Moose and Squirrel got themselves into serious trouble, eh?”

Singer swallowed. “They’re bein’ held as hostages. Those fuckers really want to blackmail us into sparing their nest.”  
“How could that happen?” Crowley wondered, half joking, half serious. “How come they take on the devil, but not some random blood suckers? From Iowa?”  
“The point is,” Singer called, “you can get them out of there without much trouble. That’s why you’re here.”

Crowley carefully watched the hunter’s crinkling face through his vessel’s lashes. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in a few days and propped himself up on his chaotic desk. He played back the voice mail that the vampires had sent him.

They really wanted to kill the Winchesters. Huh. It clearly troubled the old man.

Crowley set his glass aside, onto the nearest cupboard. “Fine. At your service.”

“If?”

He looked up, both hands in his pockets now. “If you let me out of this insulting piece of impudence,” he said after a while and pointed his head to the devil’s trap around him.

“Yeah, right. What’s the catch, Crowley?”  
Crowley blinked as he realized he would have just gone to Iowa without asking for any service in return. Curious. “Consider it a favour,” he purred to overplay his faltering.

The hunter looked as if to protest, but then his face softened. “Deal. I won’t argue, we don’t have time anymore. Just bring ‘em back, okay? No tricks whatsoever.” Crowley nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to smile. Even as Singer had scratched the devil’s trap, he looked down to the floor, shocked, before he went off to Iowa to pick up the boys.

That wasn’t his way of dealing, but, oh well, it was for Singer.

 

_Red roses are blooming, yet they’re just souvenirs_

 

Crowley thought that when he had to accept he’d fallen for boorish Bobby Singer, he might as well ‘go big or go home’.  
“Geez! What the hell!”  
“Hello, Robert.” Crowley smiled as he watched the hunter recover from the shock of him disappearing out of nowhere. Never gets old.

“Get the hell outta here, asshole,” Singer blurted out, his face distorted with the usual disgust. He ditched the papers he was holding to pull out a rifle from under his desk.

“Hey, whoah. Easy, big guy. I didn’t come here to fight,” Crowley smiled, holding up the bouquet of red roses he brought with him.

There was a pause.

“What the hell?”  
“Thought you’d like them.”

Singer lowered the rifle and stood up. “What do you want, son of a bitch?”  
“You’re not one for spontaneous visits, are you, Robert?”

There was another pause.

“I wanted to visit you, silly. Maybe have a drink or so. See what happens.” He let his gaze wander down Singer’s body. Not exactly slender, but sturdy. Could’ve been worse.

Singer pointed the rifle to Crowley again, walking towards him with assertive steps. “Don’t make fun of me. You said what you did three weeks ago was a favor.”

“And it still is.”

Crowley’s mouth curled downward when the hunter didn’t lower the weapon. “I’m not making fun of you, Robert. When I go to visit someone I hate, I bake them muffins.”

The hunter pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting Crowley right in his chest. He fell over, the roses slapping to the ground. The demon reached up to feel the hole in this chest.  
Singer just shot him.  
“Ow!” Crowley cried, but more due to the disappointment than the pain (which was bearable, being a demon and such).

“Get out of here,” the hunter snarled slowly, giving each word a stark emphasis.

“I will, bugger.” And Crowley was gone, but he made sure to leave a lot of sulphur behind.

He stomped back to his thrown. Singer… Crowley was torn between being frustrated about their meeting being cut short and being amused by how predictable that old hunter was. This setback wasn’t something he couldn’t compensate.

“Sir? Where have you been?”  
“None of your business. Any news about that damn dog?”  
“I’m a-afraid no, sir…”  
“Then get the hell out.”

 

_Mimosas are blooming like a smile of yours_

 

Singer had been gifted a pot of mimosas by his incredibly friendly neighbour, Marcy. The flowers sported peculiar shades of pink and purple, something Singer would have surely rejected if that woman wasn’t annoyingly tenacious. She found it funny how the plant’s leaves would curl up and close when she touched them, so she brought a pot for her neighbour as well.

Crowley found it more than amusing.

When Singer decorated the pot by his window, he appeared on the other side, outside the house, causing the hunter to jump and curse. Crowley smirked and came in. “What? Sorry, Robert, I couldn’t hear you from outside.”

“I did not invite you in,” Singer growled.  
“I invited myself in, buttercup,” Crowley smiled and strolled around the room.

“What is it? What do you want from me?”

“As I said last week” – Crowley turned to face Singer – “I wanted to pay you a visit. Brought no flowers this time, as I noticed lovely Miss Ward already gifted you some.”

Singer crossed his arms. “Jealous?”  
“Maybe. How could you turn me away like that?”

“Well, maybe I don’t want you around,” Singer said and went back to the kitchen. “You say that now, but you don’t make any efforts to send me away,” Crowley noted, and the hunter really didn’t.

There was no answer, so he followed Singer, yet again astonished by the state of this house, but Singer paid no attention to him.

“I would offer you help to tidy up, if I didn’t know you like it messy like this. Mucky pup.”

Singer sighed as he got himself a beer from the refrigerator.

Crowley watched his back and blinked. “You’re hurt.”  
“Yeah. Nasty ghouls.”  
“I can heal it.”

“Don’t” – Singer spun around – “ya dare touch me.”

Crowley enjoyed having the human this close to his face and smiled. Despite the smell. “I don’t even need to touch you, darling,” he purred.

Singer huffed and smashed the refrigerator’s door closed. “Go to hell,” he murmured. Crowley’s face hardened as he watched the man and his slight limb. “Why do you think so little of me, Robert?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe ‘cause you’re the friggin’ King of Hell?” He sounded so gimmicky again.

“The great pretender, huh?” Crowley asked as he followed Singer back to his desk.  
“You sure are.”  
“I was talking about you,” Crowley specified and stopped walking as Singer turned around, sighing. His eyes were tired.

“Can’t you just leave me alone? At least for tonight?”

Crowley looked away. Singer wasn’t as opposed to him as he was last week, so Crowley didn’t want to mess up the hunter’s good will, if he could call it like that. Crowley eyed the mimosas. His mere presence had made the leaves curl up. “Okay then. Just know that it’s a real shame. Call me.”

 

_Autumn crocuses are blooming, saying consolingly: Who gives a damn about me losing once in a while?_

 

Crowley was in the middle of feeding the dogs when his phone rang, but the number wasn’t among his contacts. So it wasn’t the Winchesters. But who else had his number?  
“King of Hell,” he greeted whoever was on the other end.

There was a pause.

“Crowley?”  
The demon’s face brightened. “Robert Singer.” He threw the last piece of meat to the snarling dogs and left to where the hunter was.

There he was, standing in front of his house in the morning sun.  
“Hello, darling.”  
Singer put down the cell phone and pulled his cap deeper into his face, mumbling a greeting.

Crowley smiled weakly as he looked around. “Wanna slow dance in the morning light? Oh, look at that.” Lilac crocuses bloomed around Singer’s house. “Yeah, err, that’s the first time they’re blooming here. Never had ‘em before. Thought it might’ve been a joke of yours.”

“I like your flattery, but sadly I cannot accept it. I can do a lot of things, but letting flowers grow isn’t one of them, Robert.”

“’cause you’re a demon.”

The two men stood side by side as they eyed the autumn flowers. Crowley asked about the hurt hip bone, even though he already sensed it had gotten better. Then there was more silence.

“The boys gave me your phone number,” Singer said eventually. “I, ah, asked ‘em, actually. Calling is way more convenient than summoning.”  
“True. I’ll save your number then,” Crowley smiled. He was already thinking of the fun nicknames he could use for the entry.

The hunter was different today, so aflutter and kind of nervous. Crowley would’ve been an idiot if he didn’t advantage of that. Then, out of nowhere, the hunter said, “I just wanted to apologize, I guess. You helped me get the boys outta that nest. I shouldn’t have shot ya.” Crowley chuckled roughly. “That’s long forgotten, Robert. It was a favour, I told you that.”

There was an uncomfortable pause before Singer asked, “Why didja bring the roses though?”

“Oh, you know why,” Crowley purred as he turned to look at Singer, who suddenly regained his composure. “You’re an ass,” the hunter blurted out.  
“Job wise, yes. But in private I’m quite the lover. Darling.” The smile Crowley felt on his vessel’s face now wasn’t his usual one. It felt more… genuine? He shivered, but it was a nice shiver.

Get a bloody grip, he thought to himself.

Singer fumbled with his phone. “What you do best is making things weird for everyone.”

“You haven’t seen the thing I do best yet,” Crowley smirked, his lips parted. Singer sighed. “This is exactly what I’m… urgh, nevermind.”

They stood a little while like this, not moving, just looking at the flowers in the green grass as the sun rose higher. Standing there like the two old men they are. Eventually, Singer cleared his throat. “The boys will be here soon. They’re working a case. But, err, if you want to have a drink later on…”

“Want to keep my hidden from the youngsters?” Crowley joked. “There’s no shame in hanging out with the King of Hell.”

Singer turned, his eyes squinting despite the cap. “I just brought myself to invite you. So don’t make me punch your face.”

“Very good,” Crowley purred, relaxing the hands in his pockets. Just at this moment, the black Impala pulled into the driveway.

“Get yer ass back to hell,” the hunter said, but his voice was unexpectedly soft. Bullocks! Crowley smiled artificially as he disappeared. Why did these plaid wearing models interrupt them just now?

 

_Thanks a lot for those flowers  
Thanks a lot, how sweet of you!_

 

Down in hell, there was an excited knock at his door. “Sir, we have found Angelino, the lost Hellhound.”  
“Did you?” Crowley asked as he turned around.  
“Yes.” The servant stepped closer. “He’s in South Dakota. Here, take a look at the map, sir. It’s the salvage yard owned by Bobby Singer.”

Crowley chuckled. That little fucker must’ve followed him.

“I’m sorry, the associate who saw him didn’t bring him right away,” the servant apologized nervously.  
“No worries. I’ll get him myself. And the pup, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write more Crobby in the future, featuring Hellhounds of course. Thank you so much for reading ♡


End file.
